White Walls Beckon
by Mallorn Took
Summary: Eowyn, confronting life within the walls of Minas Tirith, comes to a realization about life and love with the aid of those of the past... Part 1 of 3 posted


Author's Note: This is the first part of a perspective three part story which is, at the moment, partially written and has been for quite some time. The intent of this fic is to parralel, yet also contrast, the relationship between Faramir and Eowyn to the one between Finduilas and Denethor. Notthing much transpires in this chapter save the scene being set so consider that ere you flame me for wrting a pointless story.  
  
Go ahead, give me constructive criticism just no flames please!  
  
I am looking for a beta on this!  
  
Let's put this in retrospect, people. Technically I do not own my favorite pair of jeans... They are on extened loan from my cousin so do you think I own any of this? I can tell you that if I did I sure as hell wouldn't be writing fanfiction!  
  
Read and Review,  
  
Lauren  
  
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Eowyn's POV  
  
Part I  
  
Warm, calloused yet gentle fingers caressed my cheek, once sunken and gaunt, now full but as alabaster as ever. I felt his breath, intimate and sultry, laced in the aroma of the wind, bearing the fevered, tangy air of the turbulent sea from the South, upon my neck. Cracked, wind burnt lips, lips that knew every contour of my lithe form, brushed against my cheek and lingered on my lips. My eyelids opened, revealing tumultuous grey orbs that behold the benign countenance of my husband looming over me. A delicate smile played on my lips as I reached up with quaking fingers to brush away a stray tendril of raven hair that hung down, in part shrouding his eyes. I intertwined my slender fingers in his tangled onyx hair and could not hinder a scarcely audible sigh from escaping my lips when I encountered a strand of grey amidst the otherwise utterly pure, unmarred hue of his hair.  
  
"Go to sleep," he bid and I pressed my eyes closed, his lulling words, deep and melodic, deluging me. Weariness engulfed me and I drifted into the abyss of dreamless, peaceful slumber, not even cognizant of my husband exiting our chambers.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
I was basked in the full sunlight of the mounting day, wafting through the gossamer drapes that shrouded the windows, their beauty paralleled only by their futility in obstructing the illumination of the sun. For how long I had lingered in a deep, impenetrable slumber I am unable to discern, aware only of the incessant cadence of the dull throbbing of my head.  
  
I endured it, like so much in this oasis of ivory stone amidst the sea of plains and the pinnacles of lofty, soaring mountains for Faramir's sake, veiling my trepidation that within these walls I would succumb to the anguish of the past, withering as articulated in the tales of Finduilas of Dol Amroth. Yet despite the salient parallels in our stories , despite the haunting affinity between Denethor and his second son, their subtlety, their pensive moods, I had wed the more tender, more benevolent man that by his sympathy and eventual adoration our love had been wrought.  
  
I arose, traversing over to the divan and sank down, my hand encountering a leather volume, pages yellowing and furling up on themselves, ink fading, ancient and laced in dust. I gathered it up in my hands, leafing through the sheaves of parchment, reminiscing on how my husband had hunched over it, angular, striking features illuminated only by a lone, flickering candle. So immersed was he in the universe of ancient history and lore, engrossed in the realm of epic battles and undying, unquenchable love that spanned ages, that even my worshipping, idolizing touch on his shoulder could not lure him from his reverie last night.  
  
One page, the ebony ink slowly submitting to age and diminishing was marked with a worn, fraying ribbon. The words painted a panorama , however intimate is may be, of the eternal love of Beren and Luthien. My slender, ivory finger traced the words and phrases, breath taking metaphors, vivid verbs, enchanting descriptions and I was engulfed in images of a world wrought merely by ink and adjectives.  
  
Delicately I turned to leafs of worn parchment to the inside front cover where, etched in nearly illegible, tightly woven script, there was a brief inscription.  
  
"To my adored, beloved wife. Ever loving, Denethor."  
  
My breath caught up in my clenching throat, a powerful, yet lamentable truth dawning on me. These mere, unadorned, neither embellished nor ornate, words, yet all the more potent, words were unparalleled by even the most melodic of heart wrenching poems of ancient love. It was because these words, wrought from ink from a lover's pen, conveyed much more than could be related by a lore master, who tediously seeks and finds a minute detail on another's adoration yet who's writing, destitute of no beauty, is void of the true essence of love. An essence only a lover can express, in simple words, to the one who has ensnared their heart, body, mind, and even soul.  
  
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I apologize for spelling Tolkien wrong, it was a typo.  
  
A/N: Author's note: I sensed I touched on a land mine when I offhandidly mentioned religion in my first author's note. I tried to fix the mess and only suceeded in making it worse. Religion in NOT the topic here. Please do not review if you only wish to discuss religion. This is the last refrence I shall be making towards it.  
  
Lauren 


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